


Waterworks

by MaggieBee



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crying Kink, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Masochism, Physical Abuse, Unconditional Love (on Harley's part), mad love, the Joker is an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5926051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieBee/pseuds/MaggieBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker enjoys nothing more than making Harley cry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waterworks

It wasn’t exactly a secret that he was a sadist; inflicting pain had always made him feel a kind of unique euphoria – a high that nothing else, no other pleasures could compare to. He relished the fear in his victims’ eyes before he hurt them, killed them or intimidated them enough for them to pathetically plead for mercy at his feet, knowing that their lives were in his hands and that they were truly and completely powerless. Their screams were music in his ears, they were the build up to the highest of highs he had come to know and the painful silence that oftentimes followed them was the long sought after release. His pleasures were all fear and screams and blood and death and that was the way he had always liked it.

But something was different about her.

She was so unfairly pretty when she cried – all puffy eyed and red cheeked - clear, salty liquid slowly creeping its way down her face and neck.

He reveled in those tears, more than he reveled in the actual act of causing her pain. Pain was something _she_ was feeling, and for some reason, when it came to her, he couldn’t get off from the sole act of violence. However, her unique reaction to the pain he was inflicting upon her was doing it for him.

It was the way she shrieked when the back of his hand came into sudden contact with her cheek; how she began to whimper in agony when the first shock had died down and the pain came rushing in hot and heavy. If she was lucky the tears would already begin to make their way down her face, and he’d leave it at that, savoring her hurt expression and the damp glimmer on her cheeks the same way an artist would a finished masterpiece. Knowing he could get her to cry in a matter of seconds, knowing that he possessed so much power over her triggered a feeling of satisfaction deep inside him that he couldn’t quite explain himself. He would bend down to her then, a smile on his face while he watched her sob; ever amazed that even behind a veil of tears her eyes were still glowing with the same, utter adoration she showed him regardless of the gruesome things he liked to do to her.

There were still times when she decided to be brave and did everything to hold back the tears he was so eager to make appear on her face. He hated that; burning hot rage filling his body every time she dared to deny him the simplest of his pleasures. Another blow to the face usually did the trick, but he felt less satisfied after that, knowing it had taken too much effort and the feeling of power wasn’t the same after that.

He sometimes wondered whether she knew. Was she aware that it wasn’t the bare sensation of hurting her that he found so much pleasure in, but the way she sobbed, whimpered and wept? Did she realize how much he enjoyed to see the short flash of betrayal in her baby blue eyes shortly after he hit her, both of them knowing that she had already blindly forgiven him yet again?

He was constantly testing just how far he could go – was there anything at which she drew the line? Could he possibly reach a point where she would not dry off her tears with a faint smile anymore, wordlessly swallowing down every one of his moods and tempers? Her endurance never ceased to amaze him. One moment, she would lie at his feet sobbing and the next he’d find her happily curled up in his arms, face buried in his neck, so that he could clearly feel the last remaining proof of her pain on his own skin. She would mindlessly offer her right cheek after he had just bruised her left; she desperately clung to the same hand that had given her a black eye the night before and she endured it all if it meant there was the slightest chance to coax a kind word out of him. The little squeal she usually gave and the way her face lit up were sometimes enough reason for him to whisper sweet nothings into her ear, as if he had not just pulled her hair hard enough to make her writhe, whimper and weep. Those were _her_ highs, he could see that, and he wondered often enough whether they were comparable to his own. Yet in the end, the higher he took her the farther she could fall; and his words, as sweet as they were, oftentimes only served the sole purpose of hurting her even more later, when the desire to see her cry arose deep within him again. It seemed to him as if her tears were even sweeter and more satisfying when he cruelly ripped her out of one of those highs.

Realizations like this were the reason he began to be more prone to experimentation, warily at first, but steadily looking for new ways to make her burst into tears; ways that could maybe even make him feel something beyond the pleasures he had already come to know and enjoy. And even though he still found himself preferring the violent hand to skin, foot to ribs, knife to skin approach over everything else, he couldn’t deny the unique effect some of the newly found methods turned out to have on him.

Every time his attention wasn’t directed toward her for only a few hours, she already began flashing him hurt looks, and those glances of hers got his twisted mind racing. The first time, she broke down after two days and four hours of him basically denying her existence, refusing to talk to her, touch her, or even look at her. The tears that followed were marvelous, so easy to inflict and yet so incredibly powerful. He hadn’t done _anything_ \- nothing at all; he hadn’t laid a hand upon her for once, and that had been enough. She got over it eventually, after he dignified her with attention again, and she was careful as ever not to do anything to upset him after that. He reveled in that as well. Even after all the times where he had purposely hurt her, humiliated her and brought her to tears, she had still found a way to blame herself for this, thinking she had done something wrong - while he had only done it because he had wanted to see her cry.

Over time, he took this little game of his to extremes, exploring how far he could go, and once spending almost three weeks ignoring everything she did and said. Secretly he watched her, how she slowly crumbled under the agonizing lack of acknowledgment, eager not to miss the glorious moment where she would finally break under this insane torture. Sooner or later she always did, even though she became remarkably better at enduring his vagaries, and he’d take in every single one of her delicious tears, savoring the way she looked up at him helplessly and hurt, her voice breaking when she asked him why he didn’t love her anymore.

However, as much as the desperation in those tears brought him pleasure, they had their undeniable downsides. It took too long for his taste, and it lacked the simple yet powerful sensation of leaving a mark, be it bruises, cuts or bloody lips, on her flawless, pale skin. But what bothered him most was that she was so unbearably clingy afterwards; so needy for the attention she had gone so long without.

So he’d try something else. The possibilities were endless.

He threatened to kill her every time she only dared to think of leaving him, refused to let her sleep in the same bed as him, reminded her of how lost she was without him - “How long do you think you would last without me, pumpkin? One day? Two?” - called her _Harleen_ , over and over again, reminding her of things she didn’t want to be reminded of, just to vex her.

He mercilessly teased and fucked her until she whimpered, moaned and screamed, pleading him not to stop, only so that he could stop _right then_ , leaving her sore, unsatisfied, begging, and most importantly, crying.

He carved his initials into the tender skin of her stomach, cackling his way all through the blood, sweat and tear drenched procedure, while the sounds of her screams filled the air of the hideout.

If he got bored of one way, he tried another; it was as easy as that. It didn’t matter to him; if it made her cry, it was good enough. If it triggered that feeling inside of him, that satisfying mix of pleasure, pride and possessiveness, then it was worth it, and he could do it until he grew tired of it, or found something else.

And no matter what it was he did to her, she crawled right back to him every time, right back into his arms, ready to take on whatever he threw at her next. She was getting something out of this as well, despite the fact that she would never admit it, and even though he had no idea what exactly it was, it amused him even further. She was his little masochist, willing to let him do to her whatever he pleased. And he did. He did everything to see her sob, everything that was necessary to witness delicious tears getting caught in her eyelashes before they streamed down her reddened cheeks like summer rain.

Yes, he loved being the reason for tears, but when it came down to it, it was only hers that had this specific effect on him. Everyone else he still liked to see screaming, begging and dying. Nobody cried the way she did; nobody mastered the art of looking up at him, eyes glistening wet, bruised lips shaped into something that could almost be described as a pout, with an expression that radiated nothing but love while he probably deserved everything else.

She truly was beautiful when she cried. Not that he would ever tell her that, of course. He couldn’t have her know what her tears did to him.

Yet when she came home crying that one day, hair tousled and messed up, hiccups making it hard to understand her rambling, it was nothing like usual. His body bolted upright at the sight of her, a new, unique rage filling him, even after he had thought he knew them all. Who in his right mind dared to make her cry without _his_ permission? She was _his,_ his alone; everything belonged to him, her body, her mind, her soul, her _tears._

Before she had even finished telling him what had happened, he was out the door, head swirling with anger, bloodlust and jealousy. He was going to show the world what happened when someone messed with his property – when someone dared to help themselves to a privilege that was his, and only his, to enjoy.                                                                                                           

“ _My_ Harley” he muttered as he cleaned the blood off his knife later, “ _my_ tears.”


End file.
